A Visit to the Trump Family Gravesite Took a Very Trumpian Turn

While Donald Trump and his family travel around the country campaigning, there are five Trumps in Queens who aren't going anywhere.

The Lutheran All Faiths Cemetery on Metropolitan Avenue is the final resting spot of Donald's grandparents (Fred and Elizabeth), his parents (Fred Sr. and Mary), and his eldest brother, Fred Jr. A 2011 photo of the Trump family gravesite reveals an unassuming gray stone marker listing all five names. I was surprised to see such a modest—and crowded—grave for the forbears of a man who lives like King Tut. Had Donald not upgraded the three generations to a gold-leafed tomb? Or was he building that just for himself?

Advertisement - Continue Reading Below

Advertisement - Continue Reading Below

I had other questions, too. The name "All Faiths" seemed uncharacteristically progressive for Donald's father, Fred Christ Trump Sr., who marched in a Ku Klux Klan parade in 1927 and was sued by the Justice Department for racial discrimination in 1973. Had he really agreed to spend eternity next to just anyone? Also, did the family have a choice setting? As a real estate man, had Fred Sr. clung to the mantra "location, location, location" even in the afterlife?

As a real estate man, had Fred Sr. clung to the mantra "location, location, location" even in the afterlife?

This called for a day trip. All Faiths' friendly website says the cemetery "welcomes those who want to walk the grounds, [and] visit gravesites" so I rode the M train to the end of the line in Middle Village, Queens. A cold stone building houses the graveyard's main office. I entered and asked if they had a directory. A polite staffer said no, then handed me a map and asked who I was looking for. When I replied, "Fred Trump," he abruptly turned and walked away, disappearing into a back room. Minutes later, he returned with his supervisor: Daniel Austin, Jr., President of All Faiths Cemetery. Burly, balding and brusque, Austin didn't bother saying hello.

"This is not a public space," he informed me. I mentioned the website's offer to "upon request" show visitors "areas of historical importance and the gravesites of notable individuals" and that Fred, Sr. was listed as a notable. Austin said he didn't care what the website said. He instructed me to sign up for a tour—which, he added, they only offer when enough people are interested.

Joe McKendry

I left the office, clutching my map. Despite his efforts, Austin hadn't intimidated me: I set off to look for the Trump plot without a tour guide. I had 225 acres to scour and two clues. First, grandfather Fred died in 1918, so the Trumps were probably buried in an older, more German section. (The cemetery only became "all faiths" in 1990. Until then it was simply the Lutheran Cemetery.) Second, according to the online photo, the gravestone had an unusual sloped top that rose to a pointy peak. This detail allowed me to scan a swath of graves, like searching for a puzzle piece with a certain kind of nub.

Advertisement - Continue Reading Below

Strolling up Frederick Avenue, I noticed that almost every other etched name was "Frederick," yet all three Trump men had opted for the less formal "Fred." Along with their simple stone, I was sensing a just-plain-folks family attitude, one that Donald—not Don—clearly did not inherit. Another German name popped up a lot, too: Adolph, which fell off the "popular baby names" list around 1932.

I thought I was closing in on my destination when I passed an obelisk engraved with the surname, "TROLL" ... but no luck. Zigzagging back to an older section, I passed some maintenance workers and asked for help. One knew where the Trumps were located and told me I was in the wrong place. He turned my map over to reveal a whole other area of the cemetery marked, "South Side." When I pressed him for more specifics, he clammed up. I said I just wanted to have a look and he assured me, "Oh, we keep it real nice for Mr. Trump."

Trump Family Portrait, from left to right: Fred, Frederick, Elizabeth, Elizabeth Christ, and John, 1918.

Wikipedia

I crossed Metropolitan Avenue, frustrated that I'd wasted two hours on the north side. It made sense that the Trumps had chosen the south, which seemed less crowded and featured rolling hills and better views. Another 45 minutes of looking in vain ended when I bumped into a man unloading flowers at a crypt wall and asked if I was near the Trump plot.

It made sense that the Trumps had chosen the south, which seemed less crowded and featured rolling hills and better views.

"It's down the road," he said. He kept his head down and continued untangling his flowers.

"Which road?" I asked, spotting four in the distance.

"Let me put it this way," he said. "Come back after the election."

Now I was desperate. "Okay, I get it. You can't say." I pointed. "But if I went in that direction, would it be a good choice?"

He shook his head, then warned, "If you don't know what you're looking for, you're not gonna find it."

That is great general life advice, although not particularly helpful in the moment. And annoyingly, he was right: I wandered for yet another 45 minutes and then finally gave up.

Advertisement - Continue Reading Below

Walking dejectedly toward the gates, I wondered what the cemetery was trying to hide. Were the Trumps nestled between two Adolphs, making for bad optics? Was the lack of shiny brass grave embellishment embarrassing for Donald? Were his tax returns etched on the back of the tombstone?

I stopped by the main office one last time, hoping for pity. The same two staffers were behind the counter, and I told them that I hadn't been able to locate the grave. "Which grave?" the man asked, forgetting our earlier interaction. "The Trump grave," I said. Again, he abruptly turned and walked away, disappearing into a back room.

Austin hustled out this time. "Are you a reporter for some place?" he demanded. Yes, I replied. This triggered a lockdown. "We don't talk to people," he snapped. "You're not allowed in here. It's a private cemetery."

Since his own website begs to disagree, I argued my case, explaining that I was looking for a grave of historical significance. "That's not historical significance," he said, and began the universal "I'm done with you" office maneuver of shuffling papers.

"Sir, you have two choices," I said, revving up to explain that I could either write the article I'd planned, or one about how he'd obstructed me, but he cut me off. "No, you have two choices. Your first option is to get out of here. Or your second option is I'm gonna call the police and have you arrested and removed from here."

For what? "Criminal trespassing." He repeated his threat to call the police twice more. His reaction seemed overly aggressive. It reminded me of Trump threatening to shoot Iranian sailors "out of the water" for making rude "gestures at our people."

"Well, this is Trump's America where people…" I started.

"This is my America, honey," Austin interrupted. "This ain't yours or Trump's. It's my America. It says 'We the people of these United States.' Read the Constitution. Get lost!"

I wanted to point out that the Constitution also guarantees freedom of the press, but decided not to provoke a guy who had the tools and crew to dig a grave. I started for the door, but Austin wasn't finished.

"This is my America, honey."

Advertisement - Continue Reading Below

"I've dealt with people like you my whole life," he sneered.

"People like me? What do you mean?"

"Have a wonderful day," he said, dismissively.

I raced through the possibilities and after a day of schlepping between crosses, my mind reflexively turned to: "Jews?" I said out loud.

Unknowingly, I'd lit a fuse. Austin exploded. "I'm part Jewish. You making fun of me? You making fun of me? You making fun of me?!"

Now we were in a Scorsese movie, repeating overlapping dialogue as Austin kept insisting I was "making fun" of him while I countered with, "No, you're making fun of me." Then Austin had enough. "Get out before I call the police!" he bellowed. "One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand...!"

Now I was in the worst game of hide-and-seek ever. I considered calling his bluff: Would he actually call 9-1-1? I chose not to find out and by the time he reached "five-one thousand," I was slipping out the door.

Back on the M train, I Googled Austin, and found an old newspaper article that identified him as an ex-cop, which made me glad I ducked out. If he still had friends on the force, it could've been a long day in a Queens holding room. I also learned that Austin shared more with Donald than a hatred of the media and a hair-trigger temperament. Austin also went into the family business, inheriting his President title from his father, current All Faiths Chairman Daniel Austin Sr.

It took the whole subway ride back to Manhattan for me to figure out what Austin Jr. meant by "people like you." It wasn't that I'm Jewish and I'm sorry that I leapt to that conclusion. And I don't think it was "journalists" either. I believe "people like me" are the people who dare to question his authority. He's President of over half-a-million dead bodies, so it doesn't matter what the website or the first amendment says: When he tells a reporter to get lost, she'd better get lost. And if she doesn't get lost, the next logical step is to "Lock her up. Lock her up."

I failed at my original mission to find Trump spirits among the dead. But I did find the spirit of Trump was alive and well.